


Now the Portrait has Captured the Girl

by orphan_account



Category: Spring Awakening - Sheik/Sater
Genre: F/M, I made up Wendla's brother-in-law, Wendla-centric, both consensual and non-consensual sex happens, the schoolgirls make an appearance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-11
Updated: 2017-12-11
Packaged: 2019-02-13 09:11:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12980841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: An idea of what might have happened if Wendla had never had the abortion.





	Now the Portrait has Captured the Girl

Wendla wasn’t allowed to leave the house anymore. _If no one can see, no one will know._ Mama chanted this like a mantra. Ina returned home, her husband Wilhelm and their two young girls in tow. The idea was to pretend it was simply her third child, which even Wendla could agree was rather ingenious. She loved being around her sister again, even if it meant she had to endure Wilhelm’s sniffs of disapproval. He did everything he could to limit the contact she had with Edwina, who was nearly five. The girl was perceptive, always quietly absorbing her surroundings- and the last thing her parents wanted was the normalization of Wendla's situation. But sweet Adelheide was only six months old, and therefore Wendla was allowed to cradle her, sing to her, and wipe her runny nose. _Besides,_ Ina had argued, _It’s good preparation._

She hadn’t seen any of the girls from school in weeks. The whisper was that she was being hospitalized for anemia, all the way in Berlin. She wondered if they thought of her, or if the excitement of their final year of grammar school had swallowed them up. Maybe she was just a memory, a piece of gossip. Like Ilse.  


Melchior never went back to the reformatory. After their meeting in the graveyard three months ago, he lived in the Priapia commune for all of two weeks. He reveled in the freedom, but was turned off by the realization that they indulged in such excess because they constantly lived under the shadow of death. Every night, every party, was a last hurrah. The exposure to disease, the reckless substance abuse- it was no place for a boy. For that’s what he was- a boy. A boy who would soon have a boy of his own. 

His return home was a tense one. Just after sunset on an unusually warm evening, he trekked on foot to all the way back to his neighborhood. His shirt was sticking to him, his curls a frizzy mess- he knocked on the door almost desperately. Feeling his heart leap into his throat as he heard the doorknob turn, he found himself face to face with his uncle, whom he hadn’t seen since his twelfth birthday.

  
“The hell do you think you’re doing here, boy? There’s no room in this house for miscreants.”

  
“Oh, I- I-” Melchior wheezed. He felt like his chest was collapsing in on itself, like the time Hanschen had pushed him out of a tree and he had fallen flat on his back, until-

  
“Melchior?” There was his mama, standing in the doorway. She smacked his uncle’s arm, shooing him out of the way. They stood there, unmoving. Melchior could barely maintain eye contact; everything in him was telling him to bolt. That is, until Frau Gabor threw her arms around him, and sunk down to the floor. He could feel her trembling. He collapsed into her embrace, feeling a weight lift off his shoulders he had been carrying for months. He felt the sting of oncoming tears behind his nose as he squeezed his eyes shut, but it wasn’t until he felt his mother gently rub his back that he let out a choked sob.

  
“Mama, I’m so- I’m so sorry, Mama, please, I don’t-”

  
“Shh, my darling,” she whispered. “Let’s all go to bed.”

He visited Wendla as often as he could- which wasn’t often. Like hers, his parents had confined him to his home, though they did allow occasional company. They also hired a tutor, who met with him every other day. Hermann Gabor was mortified by his son’s actions, but he’d be damned if he had to watch his intellect wither away. After all, he decided, it was his duty as a parent to help his child succeed. So, he made sure Melchior continued to learn Latin, Greek, and trigonometry- his son _would_ go to university.  


Melchior, being Melchior, read and read and read. He wanted to be as informed as possible about Wendla’s pregnancy. His parents’ set of encyclopedias didn’t contain much information on prenatal care, but even so, he gleaned what he could. Anything he could find on proper nutrition, rest, exercise- he read it all. He even found an article advertising the best corsets to wear while expecting, which made no sense to him: it only seemed like it would squash the fetus. But Wendla didn’t wear a corset regardless, so he ignored it.  


Frau Bergmann read all of Wendla’s mail before giving it to her. After Melchior realized she immediately threw away any letters with Gabor in the return address, he had tried to write them under pseudonyms, but she was smarter than that. So, their only method of communication was in-person. On the nights that he could, he snuck out the house and into Wendla’s bedroom, climbing up the ivy and the wrought-iron decor that covered the walls and through her window.

  
“I’ve read that pregnant women often crave specific foods. Have you experienced that?” Melchior asked, with an innocent yet voracious curiosity not unlike a child’s.

  
Wendla laughed softly, picking a leaf out of his hair. “I suppose I have. I never particularly liked drinking milk before, but now it seems that I can’t get enough of it. Strawberries, too, but they aren’t in season yet,” she mused. “I wonder if there will be a day when we can have any fruit or vegetable we want, no matter the time of year.” 

  
“You might be in luck, actually. I’ve heard the Russians have begun to try to ship frozen foods overseas. I think they’ve only found success in poultry, though.”

  
“Oh, really?”

  
“Mhm.”

Their conversations mostly remained benign, until one evening when Melchior came bursting in, his cheeks flushed from running. “Did you hear about poor Ernst Robel?” he said, in a tone of voice that implied this was fresh gossip.

  
“Goodness! Not recently, I don’t think,” said Wendla, putting down her embroidery. It would soon decorate the baby’s bassinet. Melchior sneezed. “Gesundheit.”

  
“Do you have cats?” he asked, rubbing his nose.

  
“Just one. He should be around here somewhere. Are you allergic?”

  
“Mildly.”

  
“That’s unfortunate. What were you saying about Ernst?”

  
“Oh, yes. About Father Kaulbach? What he did to him?”

  
Wendla’s brow furrowed. “What?”

  
“Well, you know that he’s an altar boy, that-”

  
“Yes, we were in choir together.”

  
“Well, some other minister walked in on Ernst being molested by Father Kaulbach.” Melchior spit out the words with the utmost disgust, though one could tell he was a bit thrilled by the drama of it all.

  
Wendla looked away, embarassed by her ignorance. “What’s- what does that mean?”

  
Melchior grimaced. “Like... like what Ilse’s father did to her.”

  
Wendla’s jaw dropped. “Father Kaulbach?!” Melchior nodded solemnly. “But he’s- he’s the head of our church!”

  
“I know, I keep telling everyone-”

  
“But he’s supposed to be- I mean, my God, he’s a- he’s- and anyway, he’s the one telling us that- that _that_ is a sin!” Wendla was so horrified by everything about the ordeal that she could barely finish her sentences. She had held so much trust in that man, so much faith.

  
“Exactly! What a fucking hypocrite,” said Melchior, shaking his head in disbelief. Wendla sat there in shock. It seemed like every day, she learned that someone new had been lying to her for her entire life. How could she know what to believe anymore? Oh, and Ernst, the poor thing. Wendla hadn’t spoken to him in years, save for the occasional _peace be with you,_ but still, her heart ached for him.

  
Wendla tensed her shoulders, then dropped them back down. “This may seem inappropriate to ask, but- how does that... happen, between two men?”

  
“Well,” began Melchior. “I suppose everyone has two hands and a mouth, regardless of sex. But I’ve also read that homosexuals are known to engage in anal intercourse as well.”

  
“Anal? You mean...”

  
“Yes.”

  
Wendla wrinkled her nose. “Ew.”

  
Melchior laughed. “Yes, I suppose it seems that way to us, but I’m sure a homosexual man would have the same inclination towards the thought of vaginal intercourse.” He paused. “Do you really believe that it’s a sin?”

  
“....Vaginal intercourse?”

  
Melchior snorted. “No, homosexuality.”

  
“Oh.” Wendla bit the inside of her lip, thinking. “I suppose I haven’t really thought about it. It seems to me that anything _good_ has been labelled a sin. And beyond that, what two men do together in private has no effect on me or my life, so what’s the use in condemning it?”

  
“I agree wholeheartedly.”

  
They sat in comfortable silence before Wendla asked, “Have you ever met a homosexual before?”

  
“Hanschen Rilow.”

  
“Really?”

  
“Yep.”

  
“Did he... did he tell you that?”

  
“No, but you should see the way he looks at Bobby Maler during gymnastics.”

They got better at kissing. Before, Wendla hadn’t really seen the appeal of it. It was pleasant, sure, but it wasn’t extraordinary. Kissing was soft, kissing was slippery, kissing was... it was. That was all. She enjoyed it the way she enjoyed holding hands. But gradually, she found herself beginning to crave it. At least, she craved the way it left her- jittery and unsatiated. It was strange, she decided, to enjoy the feeling of corporeal frustration- but something about it delighted her. She felt a similar way with all intense emotions- it was proof that she was living.  


As Melchior kissed her neck, she could feel him trace his fingertips over her hipbones. She was so sensitive. Though feather-light, his touch felt electric, like it could leave visual patterns of energy on her skin. Slowly, he began to push the hem of her dress up her thighs, exposing her. His hands travelled further, and for a moment she felt a swell of panic in her gut- until his lips reached a spot just below her jaw, and her eyelids fluttered.  
“Melchior, oh- oh God, that’s-”

  
“Yes?” She felt him smile against her skin. She nodded, with a shaky exhale. He undid the string of her drawers and slid them down her legs. Melchior touched her gently, but even so, the sensation was overwhelming. She could feel it everywhere, even places she didn’t consider erogenous- the backs of her knees, her upper arms. His fingers were thin and dextrous against her wetness. (Wendla was always startled by her body’s ability to produce so _much_ of... whatever that was.) He began to increase his speed, making Wendla gasp.

  
“Don’t stop, please...” He didn’t. Any noise she tried to make seemed to get stuck in her throat. Wendla was shocked to feel her hips buck up against his hand involuntarily. It was reassuring, in a way- it was as if her body was saying _yes, go on- this is what you’re meant to be doing._ The intensity between her legs began to build and build, until her back was arching off the mattress and she was whimpering in a manner she would be thoroughly embarrassed by if she wasn’t so _close._ Close to what, Wendla didn’t know. All she knew was that she needed Melchior to keep going- keep going, keep going, please please _please-_  
“Melchior!” Wendla’s legs trembled and her entire body tensed as she climaxed. It coursed through her blood like water bubbling over pebbles in a stream. Melchior kissed her as the high began to diminish, catching her at the very end of the wave. It left her gasping for breath. Wendla’s eyes were wide open, her jaw slack. “Oh,” she whispered, “my God.”

  
“Did you feel Heaven break over you?” Melchior murmured. She could only nod.

  
“Is there... is there a word for that? That- that feeling, at the end.”

  
“Orgasm.” Melchior spoke with confidence. It was clear he felt a sense of pride when educating others. Wendla found it attractive.  
She repeated it softly. Orgasm. It was a thoroughly strange combination of consonants and vowels. It sounded like a misspelling.  
After a moment, Wendla propped herself up on her elbows, though her bones felt like jelly.

“I’d let you... you know.” She glanced down at herself, at the barely-there rounded swell of her stomach. “But I worry- wouldn’t it hurt the baby?”

  
Melchior frowned. “I can’t be sure, but I’d rather we not risk it.”

  
“Still, I feel guilty. I don’t want you to be left... unfinished.”

  
“That’s very kind of you,” said Melchior, smirking. “You could...” He trailed off as he took her hand, guiding it to his groin.

  
“With my hands?”

  
Melchior nodded. “Or... or your mouth.”

  
Wendla’s eyebrows shot up. “My mouth?” It was a concept that had never even crossed her mind.

  
“Only- only if you want to, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have-”

  
“No,” said Wendla, determined to repay him. “I’ll do it. Just... tell me how.”

  
“Alright, well, first...” Melchior unbuckled his belt, sliding down his pants. He looked away from her, nervously. He wasn’t ashamed, but verbal communication was surprisingly difficult for him. “It might be... it might be easier if you were on your knees.” Wendla obliged, sitting upright and tucking her feet underneath her. “Ah... no, I meant... on the floor.”

  
“Oh.” She moved to kneel on the ground as he sat on the edge of her bed.

  
Melchior noticed her shifting uncomfortably on the wood. “Maybe if you pulled that rug over here, like a cushion...”

  
Wendla rolled up the small woven rug and placed it under her knees. “That’s better.”  


Taking a deep breath through her nose to steady her nerves, she took Melchior in one hand, stroking softly. She was surprised by how silky the skin was, and yet, how firm. When people said ‘hard’, they really meant it. Melchior sighed. She gripped him harder, and he moaned, raw and guttural. Hearing that, Wendla’s insides stirred so intensely that she had to take a moment to collect herself. She wanted to stay in that feeling forever, all melty and fizzy. Unsure of what to do, she pressed a small kiss to the tip of his erection. He seemed to respond well to that, so she did it again. “Is... is that all?”

  
Melchior tried to think of the best way to explain. “Wendla, have you ever... have you ever sucked on an icicle?”

  
She was taken aback by the abrupt change in subject. “A what?”

  
“An icicle. You know, when water freezes and forms into-”

  
“I know what they are. Yes, I have. Why?”

  
“Imagine it’s... like that.”

  
“Uh... okay.”

  
Wendla was reminded of winter mornings a long time ago, ones where she and Ilse would play until they were called in for lunch, and then they’d go back outside and play some more. They’d run to the church; it always had the most dramatic-looking ice formations hanging from the arches. “Mama, Ilse’s papa is going to help us find ice lollies,” she’d call behind her as she darted out the door. First they’d see who could find the biggest one, for glory, and then they’d try to find the best ones to eat. She remembered the cool slide of the ice on her lips, the rhythm she would follow as she bobbed her head to ensure it didn’t get too drippy. She remembered the satisfying pop that would happen if you tightened your lips the right way. Ilse would flatten her tongue and drag it along the length in a manner that always made Wendla giggle. Herr Neumann watched them in a way she didn’t understand, wouldn’t understand, for years to come. The next day at school, Ilse’s eyes looked like they were seeing something a thousand miles away, glassy and unfocused.

* * *

Wendla had taken to sleeping on the sofa- her excuse was that it had become increasingly difficult to walk up and down the staircase to her bedroom, but truthfully it allowed her to sneak out more easily. Less creaky flooring to travel across made her stealthier.  
At eleven, she quietly padded outside in only her socks and her nightgown. She tip-toed to the edge of the porch to rest against a wooden post as she waited. The moon was exceptionally bright tonight, glowing like a pearl. Soon enough, Wendla saw the light reflect off of Melchior’s mess of curls. He began to run as soon as he saw her. She embraced him, and led him to the porch swing where they nestled together.

  
“Wendla, where are your shoes? Silly girl, you’ll freeze,” he murmured, brushing his lips on the top of her cheekbone. She hummed in response, chastely playing with the buttons on his shirt.

  
“Well, now I have you to keep me warm.” Melchior smiled, and placed her hand over his heart. He held it there with both of his own. Wendla curled into him, resting her head on his chest. She concentrated on his heartbeat, trying to sync theirs together. It didn’t really work. She took a sort of half-breath before saying- “What is love, to you?”

  
“What?” Melchior hadn’t been paying attention.

  
“How would you define love?” She repeated.

  
He didn’t have an answer. “Well, I don’t- I don’t believe in the traditional idea-”

  
“Because I always thought I had a clear idea of what it was, of what it was supposed to be. But he- the baby, I mean- he confused everything. I know I love my mama, because, well, she’s my mama. And she tells me that I love my papa, but I never met him, not really, so how could I?” Wendla stopped, shaking her head. She had gotten off-track. “I love you, I love my cat, I love little Edwina and Adelheide, and I know that because I would feel like something was missing if you died.”

  
“I miss Moritz,” said Melchior, barely above a whisper.

  
“I know, Melchi. We all do.”

  
Melchior felt an swell of incensed energy that had become familiar to him now: “Do his parents? How can they? How can they, if they were the ones who-”  
“Shh, don’t be too loud.”

  
Melchior nodded, breathing shakily. He squeezed his eyes shut, and let his head fall back against the wood of the swing. “I’m sorry.”

  
“No, Melchi, don’t be sorry. It’s just... remember that we have to be careful.” Wendla moved her thumb in little circles on his palm.

  
“I know. Careful.”

  
They were both silent for a long time, listening to each other’s breathing and the sounds of the night. An owl hooted. An opossum hissed.

  
“As I was saying,” murmured Wendla, “I’m confused. I love my- _our_ baby, in a way I’ve never felt before. I feel as though he’s the reason I exist. I’d do anything for him, I’d _die_ for him, but- how can that be? I don’t know him. He hasn’t even been born yet. And- and no one has told me that I should feel like this.”

  
Melchior’s eyebrows furrowed together. “Love isn’t something that needs to be told. It’s in our human nature. It’s chemicals in our brain, that’s all. Besides, no one told you to love me.”

  
“You did.”

  
“What?”

  
“You told me to love you. When we were together, in your barn.” She blinked up at him.

  
“Wendla, I- that’s not what I meant, I wanted you to ignore what society has been trying to ingrain in us, to-”

  
“Do you love me, Melchior?”

  
“I- well- love is such a-”

  
_“Do you love me?”_ She pressed, her voice sounding shaky.

  
“Yes! Yes, I think so.” He didn’t know if he meant it, but Wendla was frightening him.

  
She wasn’t satisfied. “Why?”

  
“Why? Well, because I-”

  
“Because you’re supposed to? Because I’m carrying your child?” This was something that kept her up at night- that his only tie to her was the baby. That and... well. What else could there be? He was so smart, so mature, so much... more than her. Why else would he waste his time with her if not for-

  
“Wendla, no! It’s not an- it’s not an obligation!”

  
“Then what? Because I let you have-” it was still difficult for her to say the word- “-have sex with me?”

  
“No! No, nonono, I- I don’t know, Wendla. I don’t know.” It wasn’t a phrase Melchior said often. He slumped back. “I...appreciate... aspects of you.” He spoke slowly, choosing his words carefully. “I- I like your... willingness. To learn, to experience. The way you question authority. You see the world as I do, Wendla. There’s a few differences, I suppose- you believe in God, and you see- you see the good in people. You always look for the light inside of someone, instead of focusing on their errors.” Melchior ran an anxious hand through his hair. “And you’re beautiful, but I’m sure you know that-” Wendla blushed. “And- I feel warm when I’m around you. I feel... lighter. Maybe that’s what romantic love is. But then, maybe that’s just what we call the animalistic physical reaction we experience in order to be more inclined to reproduce.”

  
Wendla exhaled, resting her head on his shoulder. She was silent as she absorbed his words. She had goosebumps from the night, but she didn’t mind- it felt refreshing. She took a slow breath, feeling the cool air pass through her throat and lungs. “I feel safe when I’m around you.”  
Melchior felt a prickle go up his neck and into his scalp. He didn’t know why those words evoked such a reaction in him. “I feel protected. And I think of the baby, I think of the new life we’re going to raise- and how we’re going to raise him right. Without fear of- of sin, or failure. And we won’t-” Wendla felt hot tears forming as she fought to finish her sentence- “We won’t hit him, no matter what.” She was struggling to breathe now, trying and failing to control her emotions. “And we’ll make sure he knows how much we love him, and we’ll make sure he knows that it’s okay for boys to cry, and we’ll- we’ll-” She was weeping so hard she couldn’t continue. Melchior pulled her into his arms, holding her tight and rocking her gently.

  
“Of course we will, of course,” he whispered. He knew where she had been headed- So that he won’t end up like Moritz. They stayed in that position until he had to leave.

  
Days passed quickly. Her fifteenth birthday came and went. Wendla’s belly was smooth and round; she developed a habit of resting her hands on top of it. Some mornings she stood in the mirror, tracing the jagged purple streaks that had appeared on her skin. Stretch marks, Mama had explained. They’d fade away. There was a part of her that wished they wouldn’t. She didn’t want to return to the girl she was before. She wanted a permanent mark, something that would distinguish between a before and an after. _Well,_ Wendla supposed, _If nothing else, the baby will certainly be proof._  


For the first time, Wendla felt like something belonged to her and only her. The memory of that first night in the hayloft was equal parts hers and Melchior’s, but it was tainted by her own confusion and anxiety. Her body was her own now, now that she had access to information and a drive to rebel. She felt prepared, she felt in-control. Nothing could ruin this.

  
Now that working in the garden was too exhausting, her days were spent knitting and sewing baby clothes, stitching little monograms and daisy-chaining hems. Something about seeing teeny socks and little white dresses made her inexplicably happy. It was a good thing that all babies wore white dresses; she didn't have to worry about making gendered clothes that might end up unused. Wendla had only once brought up the topic of names with Melchior: a girl, she decided, would be named after her great-grandmother Ingrid, and a boy- well. They both knew, even without saying.  


And suddenly the day arrived. Wendla was lying in her bed, sweating, panting. She was probably crying, but she didn’t notice. The pain was unbelievable. She felt like the lower half of her body was completely destroyed; there was no way it could recover from this. She could smell blood, but was unable to determine where it was coming from. Ina was kneeling near her head, grasping her hand. Wendla crushed it with her own, clinging to it like a lifeline. If Ina was in pain, she didn’t show it. Frau Bergman and the local doctor hovered around the end of the bed.

  
“It won’t be long, my dear,” encouraged Dr. von Brausepulver. “Everything is going smoothly. You’ll be able to hold your little one in your arms in no time.” Wendla grunted in response.  


The next twenty minutes felt like hours. She pushed, and pushed, and pushed, but it felt like nothing was progressing. There was a constant feeling of wrongness. Some part of Wendla had assumed that childbirth, while arduous, would have some sort of flow to it, some sort of- objective? It was difficult to describe. Wasn’t her body supposed to be designed for this? And yet, she was terrified that this baby was tearing an irreversible path through her, like she was a circular hole and it was a square peg.  


Suddenly, a searing, excruciating pain ripped through her, more intense than anything that had come before. Wendla heard a scream before realizing it had come from her own throat. And just like that, it was over. She could still feel a dull throb, but her body was so exhausted it was mostly numb. The room was quiet. A nauseating sense of unease spread through her- something was missing, though her brain was too foggy to pinpoint what. Until- Wendla’s breath caught in her throat. She could hear no screechy newborn wailing, no new heartbeat, no-

  
“Dear God.” Her mother’s voice was barely above a whisper. Ina gave Wendla’s shoulder a concerned pat before cautiously moving to join Frau Bergman and Dr. von Brausepulver. Upon witnessing, she put a hand over her mouth and another on her chest in horror.

  
Dr. von Brausepulver spoke monotonously. “Fraulein, I offer my deepest condolences. Your son has been born still.”

* * *

Wendla spent the next week feeling nothing. She felt empty, both literally and figuratively- the grounding weight of her swollen belly, so full of potential, was gone. Dead. She felt like someone had scooped out the contents of her chest, leaving a hollow cavity behind. She had spent days crying- crying over the unfairness of it all, how nine months of isolation and discomfort had resulted in nothing, she cried for the pain she had endured, but mostly she cried for the loss of a second chance. A do-over. She had wanted so badly to teach a child the things she wished she had known, to give him the words she didn’t have. When she wasn’t lying in bed, staring at the wall- the wall that displayed a portrait of her own infant self- she wandered through the house like a ghost, her breezy white nightgown only adding to the effect. She hadn’t worn real clothes in weeks. Even her cat could understand. He used to divide his time mostly evenly throughout the family, but now he almost exclusively lived in Wendla’s bed. His purrs sounded sympathetic.

  
Mama had visited the Gabors, but Wendla didn’t know what she had told them. And how much did they then tell Melchior? _Melchi, Melchi, Melchi,_ she would whisper, alone in her room. It wasn’t for any reason. She just wanted to hear his name out loud. And by God, at this point, Wendla was going to do what she fucking wanted.  
Wilhelm kept his daughters out of the house as much as he could. When Edwina had asked what had happened, he only responded, “God has punished cousin Wendla for her sin.”  
They were all grieving for different reasons. Ina, the loss of the sweet, rosy-cheeked sister she once knew; for the soft-spoken little girl who never complained when Mama pulled too hard at the knots in her hair, the child that stood and watched the others play before joining in herself. Ina did not know Wendla very well.  


Frau Bergman grieved for the grandson she would never hold, never squeeze, never dress in tiny lederhosen. She had reared a household abundant with women- but all she had ever wanted was a baby boy. When Wendla had mentioned she wanted to call the child Moritz, Frau Bergman had cringed. It had seemed like a terrible omen. And now, she realized, she had been right.

Frau Bergman invited Wendla’s old school friends over for tea one afternoon, desperately trying to bring life back into her house. Wendla made polite conversation, but couldn’t get past the nagging feeling that she had outgrown them. When Anna had squealed and hugged her, Wendla’s returning smile was noticeably artificial.

  
“Wendla, what’s happened to you?” Melitta whispered. Thea whacked her arm.  
Wendla knew there was no way of explaining the truth. After all, the girls believed she had been hospitalized for anemia for the past nine months. She went with something easy, something that wasn’t a lie: “My body still hasn’t quite gotten its strength back, that’s all.” There were nods of sympathy.  
After everyone was settled, words flew at a mile a minute:

  
“Georg and Otto got suspended after getting in a fistfight-”

  
“Ilse’s been gone for months now, the last time we saw her was Moritz’s funeral-”

  
“Can we all go swimming in the pond by the orchard tomorrow? This August heat is unbearable-”

  
“Our mathematics teacher is just horrid, you should hear what she said to Anna the other day-”

  
“Hans Rilow has a black eye, he says that he got it playing rugby, but we all know it’s from his father-”

  
“And Greta Brandenburg- well, Greta Huber, now- had her baby, a little boy named Friedrich, he’s just the sweetest little thing-”

  
That one made Wendla look up sharply. “Greta had a baby?”

  
Anna looked confused. “You didn’t know?” Wendla shook her head.

  
“That’s why she got married so quickly, the slut,” snickered Thea, poking Melitta in the side. Martha gasped. “What?” Thea shrugged. “I’m just saying what we’re all thinking.”

  
Wendla felt a lump burning in her throat. She couldn’t tell them, she couldn’t she couldn’t she couldn’t. So, she managed to keep her voice from breaking as she said, “Thea’s right. Greta’s a- a whore.” There. That should divert their attention. Now they wouldn’t suspect a thing.

  
Anna rarely showed anger, rarely raised her voice, but this was too much for her to hear. “Wendla, I’m sickened by your words. It’s hardly our business what Greta does! And besides,” she continued, more quietly now. She glanced over at Martha before saying, “Besides- we don’t know if she... if she wanted it. You know what I mean.”

“Or maybe she did want it.” The words were out of Wendla’s mouth before she could really think about it. She was radiating with nervous energy, her skin flushed and her mouth dry. She could hardly believe she was saying this out loud, coming so close to disclosing her secret: “Maybe she wanted it more than anything.” There was an awkward silence, but Wendla kept going. “Maybe she wanted it like nothing she’d ever wanted before, like the only thing that mattered in the whole entire world was feeling his heart beat against her own.” Her vision was blurry with tears, but she knew the girls were staring at her, open-mouthed. “Maybe he made her feel special, and valued, and loved, and- and-” She was openly weeping, involuntarily- it was frustrating, infuriating, even- she didn’t want to cry, she wanted to be _in control-_ “I’m sorry. I think you all should go. I’m very exhausted.”

A week later, Frau Bergman received a letter. It was an invitation to the wedding of an old friend of hers, a man who had lost his previous wife decades ago. She clutched the paper to her breast, thanking God for blessing her with this small solace.

  
“Wendla?” Frau Bergman knocked on her door softly.

  
“Come in.” Once, there would have been a lilt to her voice, stretching out the response like a song. Now, it was monotone.

  
“My dear, I have exciting news. We’ve been invited to a wedding! You met the bridegroom once, when you were small, probably eight or nine-”

  
“I won’t go.”

  
Frau Bergman’s heart sank. All she wanted was to see her daughter smile again, just once. She carefully perched on the bed next to her, scratching the ears of the cat that was resting in her lap. Wendla clutched him tighter. “Lovey, please, it will be such fun...” Her tone was unconvincing.

  
“If you make me go, I’ll kick and I’ll scream and I’ll embarrass you in front of all of your friends and you’ll never be invited anywhere ever again.”

  
Frau Bergman was frustrated now, raising her voice for the first time since before. “Wendla Bergman, I’ve done nothing to deserve such talk. If you don’t want to go, fine. Stay home.”

  
Wendla was shocked. “Really?” She had never been away from her mother, except for the yearly retreats with her church’s youth group.

  
“Yes. I can’t imagine what more you could possibly do to yourself, at this point.”

  
Wendla was so numb that the offense bounced right off of her. A month later her mama was gone, gone for a whole week. She wanted to see Melchior again; she needed to talk to him so desperately. She decided that the most efficient and mature way to contact him was to hand-deliver a letter (that read only: _PLEASE VISIT.)_ , leave it on his doorstep, ring the doorbell, and then immediately run away. And this is what she did. Not an hour later, Wendla heard a knock at the door. Her heart fluttering too quickly, she opened it, and there he stood. After a brief silence, Melchior staggered forward and consumed her in a hug. Wendla gasped, as if the heat and pressure of human contact was oxygen she had been deprived of. After a long minute, she pulled away, and attempted to be a hostess:

  
“Would you… like some water? Or something to eat?” Melchior shook his head. He was noticeably taller, and bone structure looked sharper. He had faint purple shadows under his eyes. He looked older, and sadder. “Okay.”

  
As soon as she shut the door to her room, Melchior was pulling his sweater vest over his head and unbuttoning the collar of his shirt. He climbed onto her bed and sat up on his knees before reaching out a hand, a silent beckon. When Wendla realized what he was suggesting, her stomach sank. She couldn’t, not now. Not today. Not ever, maybe.

  
When he saw the reluctance on her face, he began to plead: “I need you, oh God, please, I need you, Wendla, you’re an angel, _my_ angel, please...” His begging continued until she joined him on the bed, up on her knees as well. He placed his hands on both sides of her face, murmuring how beautiful she was and how badly he craved her and O, Wendla, please end this suffering no matter how briefly.

  
He kissed her, rough and unforgiving. “Melchior, no.” It was as if he couldn’t hear her. His mouth was sickeningly hot and wet against her own. Every time she pulled away, he caught her again. He pushed her down on the bed, one hand cradling her neck and the other grabbing her thigh. _“Stop, stop it, Melchior, stop it-”_ He silenced her with another kiss. Eventually she gave up, too tired to resist. She went limp beneath him, letting Melchior manipulate her body like a doll. When he penetrated her, she didn’t cry out.  


She stared up at the wooden slats of the ceiling, letting her mind go blank as she was rhythmically rocked back into the mattress. She could handle this. At least, this time, he was smart enough to pull out. Melchior buried his face in her neck as he came, and, without thinking, Wendla’s hand shot up to hold it there. He shuddered as she gently grazed her fingernails along his scalp. Wendla felt a single tear trickle down the side of her face. She wasn’t crying, not really, it was just a stray drop. God, it felt good to be close to someone. Then she remembered what was between her legs and her throat burned. She pushed Melchior’s hips up with her hands, and he took the hint, rolling off of her. The only sound in the room was that of Melchior’s breathing, heavy with cathartic exhaustion.

  
Wendla’s voice was barely above a whisper. “Why did you do that? Why, even after I told you to stop?”  
Melchior’s eyes flew open. He grabbed her wrist. “What?” She took one look at him before her face crumpled, making a high whining sound as she began to cry. She forced herself to turn away from him, so she cried into her pillow. Melchior was shocked. He tried to soothe her, but she batted his hand away. Why was she acting like this? What had he done? Had he hurt her? Genuinely, he didn’t know. Weren’t girls always reluctant at first? Wasn’t that simply the nature of the female? Defending herself, until finally...

  
“Wendla, tell me I didn’t force you. Wendla, please. Wendla!” He shook her shoulder.

  
She managed to calm down, evening out her breathing. She knew she couldn’t hurt him with the truth. “You didn’t force me.” Melchior nodded. His eyes weren’t focused on her. He lay next to her, chest down, and gently draped an arm across her stomach.

  
“I love you,” he said, his voice a breathy murmur. Wendla pretended to be asleep.


End file.
